Ghost of a Rose
by Werewolf Masquerade
Summary: A songfic for Reaver and 'her'.


**The song is by Blackmore's Night. All the rights to it belong to them. I've heard this song a million times, but only recently did I feel like it was perfect for Reaver. Well, a pre-destroy-everything-he's-ever-known-and-ever-loved Reaver, heh. I was inspired by both the song and the last entry in Reaver's diary. I hope you enjoy it. Feedback is appreciated!**

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**Ghost Of A Rose**

_The valley green was so serene, in the middle ran a stream so blue_

_A maiden fair, in despair, once had met her true love there and she told him_

_She would say, "Promise me when you see a white rose you'll think of me_

_I love you so, never let go. I will be your ghost of a rose."_

There was a world outside of Oakvale, but he had never seen it. He was not an old man, not by anyone's reckoning, but it seemed to him that at the age of twenty-nine, he had no more than blinked and half of his life had been swept away by cruel Father Time and he had scarcely stepped foot beyond his hometown's borders. How much of his life could be considered wasted? How much of it did he _really_ have left? He would often ponder such questions as he toiled the days away in the fields of his family's farm, fearing the answers he might receive, yet yearning for them all the same.

Since boyhood he'd dreamt of exploring Albion, living the life of an adventurer and taking on every challenge that presented itself, but he was never quite able to bring himself to leave. It was always, "_Next year. Next year I'll seek my fortunes abroad. I'll set out early one morning and I won't come back._" But the years came and they went, and each year he would have some new excuse as to why he could not depart as planned. Not only was there excitement beyond Oakvale, but danger. The wilds beyond the borders of his homeland were famously hazardous and there were bandits and beasts so eager to snuff out the life of anyone not wary enough or strong enough to survive.

Was he afraid? He told himself no, but deep down he knew it was true. Why else couldn't he bring himself to leave? There was nothing keeping him there; nothing that was important enough to make him abandon his dream. Nothing… until _she_ came into his life. She was clever and spirited, a girl he hadn't looked twice at until she blossomed into a gorgeous young woman that any man would give his right arm just to have her look in his direction once. He hadn't needed to pay any such price. There wasn't a woman in Oakvale able to resist his charms, and she was no exception.

_Her eyes believed in mysteries, she would lay amongst the leaves of amber_

_Her spirit wild, heart of a child, yet gentle, still, and quiet and mild and he loved her_

_When she would say, "Promise me when you see a white rose you'll think of me_

_I love you so, never let go. I will be your ghost of a rose."_

She was the only thing in Oakvale he couldn't bear to leave behind. His heart would ache at the thought of being apart from her and her name would fall so easily from his lips as he slept. She was his first love, and his last. No woman could compare to her and he knew that if he could not have her, no one could take her place. Unfortunately, her parents did not think highly of him. They were among the wealthier families of his hometown and he, he was but the son of a farmer whose crops had never quite yielded the quantities of exportable fruits and vegetables that others had. Whether it was just bad luck, or poor experience in the trade, he didn't know, but it kept him from marrying the only woman with whom he wished to share his life.

They would often sneak away together, picnicking in one of the secluded meadows or making love along the banks of the river, but it wasn't enough. He would never rise above the poor, farmboy status there in Oakvale, and he would never be a proper husband in the eyes of her family until he had the wealth to support the lifestyle her father believed she deserved. It was on that subject that he and his nemesis actually agreed. He wanted her to have everything she could ever possibly need and more. He wanted to spoil her with riches and extravagances beyond her wildest dreams. But he could give her nothing aside from his undying love, which she swore was all she could ever ask for. Her words, though kind and sincere, did nothing to change his mind.

Once, he had asked her to come with him if ever he built up the courage, and the funds, to travel as he had always planned. Perhaps with her support, he might find it in himself to face the world he so feared, yet longed to explore. She agreed. But still, at the back of his mind lingered the knowledge that time was fleeting, and life so fragile. If he dared to venture out into Albion, what assurance did he have that both his and his beloved's lives would not be ended by some unforeseen threat, some foolish mistake on his part? How could he protect himself and, more importantly, the woman he loved? He was desperate, but when his efforts to find a solution to his fear of time and death finally bore fruit, he made the ultimate sacrifice. One he would have an eternity to brood upon.

_When all was done, she turned to run, dancing to the setting sun as he watched her_

_And ever more he thought he saw a glimpse of her upon the moors forever_

_He'd hear her say, "Promise me when you see a white rose you'll think of me_

_I love you so, never let go. I will be your ghost of a rose."_

Reaver swirled the contents of his goblet absently, neatly transcribing his thoughts onto a page of his diary as he sat in an exquisite armchair by the fire. His reoccurring nightmare had spoiled yet another night's sleep and, as usual, he hoped a spot of wine might lull him back into a state of dreamless sleep. If only the beverage had a more permanent affect and could quell those pesky, incessant dreams forever. He sighed, placing the now empty drinking glass atop the small, circular table beside his chair along with his diary and got to his feet. Slowly, he climbed the stairs of his manor, bypassing both his room and the guest room on his trek to the highest point in his coastal paradise.

Once he reached his destination, Reaver lingered in the doorway of the attic, gazing wearily upon his stored trinkets and treasures as if he dreaded entering that silent, moonlit room. With another heavy sigh, the pirate king moved passed those pilfered goods and stepped up to the window. He leaned close to the panes, his breath fogging them slightly as he stared out across Bloodstone and over into the marshes that bordered it. Just as he expected, there was something there that shouldn't be.

White fabric billowed about a slender frame and wild, golden hair fell all around a heart-shaped face. Her porcelain skin seemed to glow with a strange, soft light and her eyes were so blue one might easily mistake them for sapphires, yet they were filled with a distinct sorrow that Reaver could detect even at such a great distance. Despite the aura of depression that seemed to hang around this mysterious woman, she danced across the swamp, seeming to float just above the snags and reeds. He watched her body move to unheard music, contorting in the most elegant of ways as she danced. And then, with a final pirouette, she slowly faded from sight.

The wine, Reaver thought as he stepped back from the window, had finally taken affect and banished the wraith from his thoughts. He felt as though a heavy weight had just been lifted from his shoulders and his mind suddenly felt perfectly unburdened by any lingering thoughts of that accursed nightmare. He turned and made his way back downstairs to his room and, finding it just as crowded as he had left it earlier, decided to spend the remaining hours of night in the guest room. As he lay across the mattress, atop the sheets and fully clothed, he thought to himself a few of the last words he'd written on the pages of his diary, slowly drifting off into the welcoming arms of sleep.

_What a weak, despicable man he is. But I am not he. I am Reaver._


End file.
